


A Nightmare (Not)

by WahlBuilder



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fire, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-08-21 13:09:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16577117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: It's a quiet December night in 1882, and Jacob gets a message that the Alhambra is on fire.





	A Nightmare (Not)

**Author's Note:**

> In this house, we ignore the presented death of Maxwell Roth. The Crimson King and the Raven Prince lived happily ever after for many years (and then retired to their Fae Land).

At first, when he hears the words, he is thrown back in time by fourteen years, into his worst nightmare (he still has it at nights: the flames, the blood—and Max, seemingly unaffected by smoke). But then, the meaning of the words registers in his mind, and he stares at the Blighter. Jeremy, he thinks, one of those younger ones, whom Max raised, for whom he is like a father. (‘I never thought I’d have such a big family again, my dear boy. I’m grateful.’)

Jeremy is crying, and he tries to wipe his face on the sleeve of his jacket, but it doesn’t stop his crying, and his breaths become stuttering. ‘Sir… Sir, Mr Roth… He was…’

There are a few things everyone knows about the Alhambra—everyone of a certain circle, of course: it is a safe place, and even if— _when_ —the police raids happen, the all-powerful and much elusive owner, the Crimson King, will make sure nobody is ruined over that; you can always ask for help there; and the Alhambra is full of birds and cats.

Another thing that many of yet another circle know is that in addition to cats and birds, many people live there. _Max_ lives there, and he works until the early rays of morning…

Jacob is already running. He hasn’t even noticed how he has moved from sitting at his desk to running, skidding, leaping over crates, early morning carts and horses, he jumps onto a green growler and sends the horses into a bone-jarring gallop, and it’s _still not fast enough_ , he jumps right off of it, lands on his shoulder in an awkward roll, and it doesn’t matter that his vision hasn’t adjusted from the lamp over his desk to the early morning gloom, it doesn’t matter that usually navigating the streets on the ground level is a confusing nightmare—he _knows_ where he’s going.

He always knows where the Alhambra is.

He realises he hasn’t put on his gauntlet, so he simply hauls himself up by ledges and notches in brickwork up the nearest wall—and runs, runs, runs, runs, runs. Up, down, crouch, roll, leap, jump, he barrels down a wall to the ground level again. A blaze on the horizon the most terrible thing, a thicket of smoke over it even more so.

The peel of bells.

Fire. Fire. Fire.

He shoots out onto Leicester square and realises where he is only when he collides with a fence.

He cannot look anywhere but at the crimson blaze.

_‘Max!’_

He realises it’s him, shouting at the top of his lungs, it’s him, rushing to the magnificent edifice, it’s him, trying to breach the cordon of the police and the fire brigade, and they hold him, hold him. He punches some face, how _dare_ they, _Max is there…_

But they drag him back as he shouts wordlessly and tries to pry them away, get away, get _in_ , Max, Max, _Max…_

A flurry of black feathers swoops in front of him.

And Jacob goes still, watching it.

It screeches at him—and the world snaps back into focus, sounds, voices, bells, hissing of water, crackles of flames crashing into him at once.

He cannot tear his gaze away from Rook.

The bird screeches again right into his face and tugs on his sash, pulling him away from the hot blaze (he can feel it now, even though he’s many steps away from it).

He goes after Rook—or stumbles, more accurately—into the small garden and to the melancholic Bard and beside him, on a step, Max. In his shirt-sleeves, the many tattoos like bruises under the white of the linen, a knife dancing in his gloved hands, so fast it’s a silver blur.

Max is watching as his theatre burns. The blaze has turned his face into a terrible sort of mask—and for a second, Jacob is thrown into his worst nightmare again, and he’s choking on smoke, reaching out to Max…

Rook lands on Max’s shoulder, and Max startles, catching the knife and folding it in one smooth movement. Then looks at Jacob, something broken and apologetic in his eyes.

Jacob falls towards him and folds himself over him, bunching the shirt over Max’s back in a shaking hand. Max’s hand slides into his unbuttoned jacket.

‘Someone set the front curtain on fire,’ Max says, and he sounds so tired, voice even rougher than usual. He must have inhaled a lot of smoke, he should go to…

Jacob pulls back just a fraction, shielding Max from the burning Alhambra.

Max looks up, green eyes glinting wetly.

‘Did anyone…’ Jacob cannot finish, his throat feels as though he has inhaled smoke himself.

Max shakes his head, once, a thin grimace twisting his mouth. ‘Got everyone out.’

Rook squawks and pecks Max’s hair. Max chuckles. ‘Oh right, you, dear sir, have lost a few tail feathers.’

Jacob startles when his leg is stroked, and looks down. Mina and her flock are coming out of the bushes, and she looks up at him with the most offended expression a cat can make. He bends down to scratch her back, and the feeling of her fur, Max’s quiet bickering with Rook, Max’s hand still on his back—all of it convinces Jacob that they will be all right.

**Author's Note:**

> The Alhambra burnt a single time, on the 7th of December in 1882. Reports said there were no casualties, but accounts of contemporaries found it strange: it was before the Christmas season, the busiest season in the year. At the very least, a lot of people's works was destroyed: decorations, mechanisms, costumes, tools. Including the famous front curtain (pieces of it could be found in flats of the Alhambra fans, most likely salvaged after the fire). The fire was even more devastating for the fact that only recently, in 1881, the Alhambra had undergone renovations (as far as I remember, they had built the last, third gallery).  
> [The Shakespeare statue](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Statue_of_William_Shakespeare,_Leicester_Square) still stands.
> 
> (We can imagine that it was Jack who set the Alhambra on fire in 1882.)


End file.
